Like a Moth to a Forbidden Flame

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I always felt my husband was forced to marry me.

Every time we were intimate, Michael only used his hands.

Eventually, I gave up and decided to set him free.

But the night before printing the divorce papers, I overheard him with his friends.

Why not touch your wife? She's right there, one said.

Emily might run off if you keep holding back.

Michael sipped his whiskey.

"You don't understand. She's delicate. What if I scare her?"

His voice deepened.

"She's my wife. I must cherish her. If she finds what I can't give elsewhere... fine. As long as she comes home to me."

His friends laughed.

"Then why secretly Google everything?"

That night, I checked Michael's history-99 searches, all variations of:

"I finally married the girl I love, but I have a kink. How do I not scare her away?"

The day Michael came back from his business trip, I had a battle plan.

I showered, shaved, and put on a full face of makeup before slipping into the new, sinfully sheer nightgown I'd bought.

Then, I slid into his side of the bed, waiting to be conquered.

But when he walked out of the bathroom, the sight of me in his sheets made him freeze, the towel in his hands stilled mid-rub.

"What are you doing here?"

There wasn't a trace of warmth in his voice.

My eyes roamed over him, from top to bottom.

Michael's body was a work of art; even the plush bathrobe couldn't hide the swell of his pectoral muscles or the faint outline of his abs.

Logically, with a nose that sharp and fingers that long, he had to be...

well-equipped.

And yet, in six months of marriage, I had never been allowed to get a "deeper" understanding.

Refusing to be deterred, I decided to be direct.

"I'm here to sleep with you."

I didn't care what excuses he came up with.

Tonight, he was mine.

Michael's expression flickered.

His gaze dropped to my lingerie, and after a long pause, he gave a clipped, "Fine."

That easy?

I was in disbelief.

As he approached the bed, I felt a wave of uncertainty.

The only light came from the small, mood-setting lamp on the nightstand.

He lay down beside me, a wave of cool air and the clean scent of soap washing over me.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I boldly wrapped my arms around his waist.

Michael's entire body went rigid.

A beat later, his head turned, his eyes finding mine in the dim light.

His voice was a low rasp.

"Do you want me to help you?"

Before I could answer, he pulled away, his movements swift as he opened the nightstand drawer.

"..."

The little spark of excitement inside me was instantly doused by the practiced ease of his actions.

I didn't even need to ask.

I knew what was coming next.

He was going to fulfill his husbandly duties-just not with himself.

A white-hot spike of anger shot through me.

It was always like this.

His own body was under lock and key, untouchable even when he was clearly aroused.

When he pulled out the finger cots, my face darkened.

I snatched them from his hand and threw them at his chest.

"Help me with what? You're so damn vanilla, what new tricks could you possibly have?"

My voice was sharp, brittle with frustration.

The lamplight was too faint for me to see his expression clearly, but I could feel his dark eyes fixed on me, the intensity of his gaze like a physical touch.

It was hot, and maybe, just maybe, laced with confusion.

All the pent-up disappointment surged to the surface.

"Michael, if you can't get it up, just say so! It's not like you're the only man on the planet. I can find someone else, anytime!"

We were married, for God's sake.

Why did every encounter have to feel like he was doing me a reluctant favor?

"That's not what I meant," he said, his voice strained.

But still, he made no move.

Not even to cup my face for a kiss.

Anything would have been better than this cold distance.

This was the third time.

The third time I'd laid myself bare, only to be rejected.

The disappointment was a crushing weight.

I grabbed the robe I'd just discarded and stood up.

Then I stormed out, slamming the door with a thunderous crack that echoed the shattering of my patience.

I ended up at my best friend Chloe's apartment.

My phone buzzed relentlessly on the coffee table.

"Not gonna get that?"

Chloe asked, tilting her head.

I threw back a shot of tequila, the burn in my throat a welcome distraction.

With a sigh, I switched my phone off completely.

"What kind of trashy cigarettes did you buy?"

I grumbled, my voice already raspy.

"One puff and my throat's wrecked."

Chloe just laughed, playfully tapping the colorful pack in her hand.

"They look pretty, don't they?"

She held it up for me to see, and with a few casual questions, she had the whole story out of me.

Not that I was trying to hide it.

There was one question that had been eating me alive.

"Chloe, why won't Michael touch me?"

"Maybe... he's not into women?"

I shook my head.

Michael had a girlfriend in high school, and since then, countless men and women had thrown themselves at him, only to be met with his signature ice-cold rejection.

Then, a thought sparked in my mind.

My eyes narrowed.

"I bet he's saving himself for my perfect older sister, the one who ran off to Europe."

I'd heard the rumors before-that Michael had always been in love with the gentle, quiet heiress of the Sinclair family.

Now, it was all clicking into place.

This marriage...

I was just a stand-in.

My sister was the one who was supposed to marry Michael.

But she'd dumped him for her supposed "soulmate," some artist she followed to another continent.

Michael, ever the perfect gentleman, had never denied me anything in our six months of marriage-except for that one crucial thing.

And every time he used his hands on me, watching my pleasure with that detached, controlled expression...

there was never any desire in his eyes.

He looked like a spectator at his own life.

Did he find me... disgusting?

The thought hit me like a physical blow, and the fragile dam holding back my hurt broke.

I slammed my glass down on the table with a loud crack.

"That's it, I've decided!"

Chloe jumped.

"Decided what?"

"I'm divorcing him!"

A man who was all looks and no action was useless, no matter how handsome.

Especially one who was still hung up on someone else.

I was Emily Sinclair.

I didn't need him.

"Okay, okay, easy there. No more drinking," Chloe said, clearly thinking I was just drunk and emotional.

She dragged me off to take a shower.

She'd just gotten a fresh manicure, and being a restless sleeper, she left a few angry red scratches on my neck by morning.

The moment I turned my phone on, it exploded with notifications.

All from Michael.

When I got back to our villa, I was surprised to find him home.

The air was thick with the smell of stale smoke, the ashtray on the coffee table overflowing with cigarette butts.

He looked up, his sharp features cutting a striking figure even in the morning light.

"You're back."

His voice was a gravelly whisper.

Then his eyes landed on the marks on my neck, and his pupils contracted violently.

The light in his gaze instantly went out, replaced by a chilling darkness.

I hadn't slept well, and the combination of smoke and alcohol had left my throat raw.

I was in no mood for a dramatic confrontation.

Just as he was about to speak, I raised a hand, my voice raspy.

"I'm exhausted from last night. I'm going upstairs."

I wasn't trying to be cruel.

I was just done.

I was really going to divorce him.

A marriage without passion is a marriage without happiness.

But, as fate would have it, I came down with a fever that night.

My body felt like it was filled with lead, my head swimming in a thick fog.

The door creaked open.

Michael had just showered, and the crisp scent of mint from his body wash was so strong it almost made me gag.

I wrinkled my nose and tried to push him away.

"Leave me alone."

His body tensed.

"Then who should take care of you?"

His voice was deep, laced with a carefully restrained emotion.

He was trying, desperately, to be gentle.

"Come on, be good. Take the medicine, and you'll feel better."

His cool fingertips brushed against my lips, and I saw his hand, resting on his thigh, clench into a tight fist.

His gaze lingered on my mouth, his breathing growing heavier.

I was completely oblivious.

Being held by him felt uncomfortable, and I twisted away, trying to lie back down.

"Okay, you can go now."

As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I thought I heard the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

It seemed Michael was taking another shower.

...

When I woke up again, I was wrapped tightly in Michael's arms.

The distinct feeling of something hard and hot pressed against my leg was impossible to ignore.

His warm breath ghosted across my ear as he stirred, his hand coming up to feel my forehead.

"Still a little warm. The fever hasn't completely broken yet."

I was wide awake now.

It's not the fever making me hot, you idiot!

It's you!

I tried to elbow him away, but he expertly caught me by the waist.

His calloused thumb brushed lightly against my skin, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

A small gasp escaped my lips.

"Emily."

Michael's voice was a low, husky whisper, carrying a magnetic pull that was hard to resist.

"Should we... try?"

"..."

On any other day, I would have jumped at the chance.

But after the last few days, a wall had gone up between us. To me, this felt like a slap followed by a piece of candy.

A pathetic offering.

Still weak from the fever, my body ached.

I turned my face away, my voice cold.

"I can't. I'm too tired."

The man behind me went utterly still.

I could feel the tremor in his breath as the life seemed to drain out of him.

With a visible effort, Michael pulled back, creating a small distance between us.

He said nothing.

When I finally turned to look at him, his eyes were dark pools of sorrow, a bitter smile twisting his lips.

"It's my fault. I don't blame you."

I let out a cold snort.

At least he had some self-awareness.

"But please," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, "don't push yourself so hard next time. It's not good for your body to get a fever like that."

Michael lowered his gaze, hiding whatever raw emotion was swirling within him.

Before I could process his words, he stood up and went to the closet to get clothes for me.

He usually wore silk pajamas, but for once, he was wearing only a towel wrapped low on his hips.

The sculpted lines of his muscles and the tantalizing V of his torso were on full display.

My eyes traced the firm curve of his waist and the tight clench of his glutes, and my heart gave a little flutter.

But that was all.

Any handsome man standing in front of me would have had the same effect.

Michael handed me the clothes.

Without a second thought, I started changing right in front of him.

As expected, he immediately turned away, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall.

What I didn't know was that the moment I left the room, Michael walked straight back into my bathroom.

A few days later, I started noticing some of my clothes were missing.

At first, I didn't think much of it.

They weren't expensive pieces, and I had plenty of others.

But then, the lace lingerie set Chloe had bought me last week vanished.

I couldn't figure it out.

We didn't have cameras in the house, so there was no way to identify the pervert.

Finally, over dinner one evening, I brought it up with Michael.

"I think we have a thief."

He was calmly sitting at the table, spreading butter on a piece of my toast.

He paused for a fraction of a second at my words.

Without looking up, he asked, his voice steady, "What's missing?"

"Lingerie."

"..."

I said it nonchalantly, but his reaction was anything but.

The butter knife slipped, smearing a dollop of yellow across the small mole on the back of his hand.

My eyes narrowed, watching his uncharacteristic clumsiness.

"Why so nervous? Did you take it?"

Michael was silent for a few seconds before letting out a soft, humorless laugh.

His long, dark eyes met mine.

"What do you think?"

Before heading to the office, Michael was always impeccably dressed.

He wore a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses for his slight nearsightedness, which only served to accentuate the depth of his features.

Right now, behind those lenses, his black pupils seemed colder than the sunlight streaming through the window.

I offered a light smile.

What did I think?

Michael was the epitome of buttoned-up, straight-laced propriety.

And besides, what on earth would he do with my underwear?

I decided to drop it.

"What time will you be back tonight? I have something for you."

The divorce papers were ready.

Michael handed me the toast, his reply coming instantly.

"Whenever you want me, I'll be back as soon as I can."

He said it so quickly, the words tumbling out, that I barely registered the meaning behind them.

His phone rang.

The assistant waiting in the driveway came in with a briefcase, reminding him he was late.

Michael left.

I placed a hand over my chest, where my heart had just skipped a beat.

My other hand went to my ear, which was inexplicably burning hot.

I was both flustered and annoyed.

Why couldn't he just talk normally?

What was with all the flirting?

After my meal, I took a trip to the doctor's office.

He told me I had a hormonal imbalance and that finding a man to...

regulate things would be beneficial.

The moment Chloe heard this, she was practically vibrating with excitement, offering to "lend" me the services of a chiseled model with eight-pack abs and a young stud with pecs for days from her agency.

At the time, I was sitting in my air-conditioned studio, sketching out the line art for my graphic novel, completely absorbed in perfecting my characters.

I immediately shot her down.

She cut straight to the chase.

"You've been breaking out lately, haven't you?"

Her words hit a nerve.

I mentally cursed Michael's name again.

Two pimples!

Right on my chin.

"You know what they say, the grass is always greener... Besides, you two are about to get divorced anyway. You're really not going to try?"

Chloe's voice was a siren's call of temptation.

I put down my pencil.

I was stuck on the design for a side character's face.

A little real-life reference couldn't hurt.

"Looking only. No touching."

So my testosterone was a little high.

Once I was divorced, I could find a hundred and eighty men if I wanted.

But not now.

It wasn't because I was a coward; I just had high moral standards.

I didn't just go around lusting after men's bodies!

Chloe laughed, clearly not buying my claims of self-control.

I was full of confidence at the time, but that night, as I slept, my own mind betrayed me.

I had the most vivid, steamy dream.

In it, I was locked in a passionate kiss with a man, our bodies tangled together.

Our breaths mingled, his hot and heavy against my skin, the sound of our mouths moving together pulling me deeper and deeper into a rising tide of pleasure.

I was lost in his bold exploration, completely immersed in a world of shared ecstasy.

It was pure bliss.

Until-I saw Michael's face, inches from mine.

I jolted awake, my heart pounding, my body slick with a cold sweat.

The phantom sensations of the dream still lingered.

My legs felt weak as I made my way downstairs for a glass of water.

That's when I heard the lazy, teasing voices from the living room.

"You know, some people are absolutely drowning in desire, but they're so afraid of scaring their wives that they just... suffer in silence. Not naming any names, of course."

Peeking around the corner, I saw Michael's closest friends lounging on the sofas, whiskey glasses in hand, their tones dripping with mockery.

"Women can't resist a little temptation, Michael. You keep this up, and Emily's gonna run off with someone else. You'll be crying before you know it."

These guys were close enough to Michael to say whatever they wanted.

In response, Michael just lifted his glass and took a slow sip, his handsome face an unreadable mask.

He said something that made his friends roar with laughter, and a prickle of suspicion ran down my spine.

They mentioned he had a secret blog.

A private account where he posted things.

Driven by a mix of curiosity and a desire to finally get some leverage on him, I mentally replayed the username they'd mentioned.

I typed it in, and sure enough, an account with the same profile picture as Michael's official one popped up.

I clicked on it and saw a pinned post at the top.

I was expecting to find some typical, crass locker-room talk.

But the words on the screen made me freeze.

It read-

"I finally married the girl I've been in love with for years, but I have a specific kink. How do I make it a good experience for her without scaring her away?"

The next post.

"The world is full of temptations, and she thinks I'm boring. It's my fault. If I tried to please her like this, would she reject me?"

Attached was a picture of a male butler costume and a small, silver bell collar.

In an instant, all the blood in my body rushed to my head...